Encircled
by Yet Another Pseudonym
Summary: Bethany hasn't seen her sister in the three years since the Qunari invasion.  Can she forgive Lysandra Hawke or Fenris?  FemHawke/Fenris/Bethany
1. Reminisce

"You never told me you met my sister."

"I didn't know who she was until today. You never speak much of her."

Ella shuffled her feet, her hands clasped behind her back. She reminded Bethany too much of a small child caught doing something naughty. One of these days, that sweet, timid girl was going to have to step up and own her power.

"No, I guess I don't. She doesn't speak much of me either, I'll wager."

"I didn't know she was the Champion when she saved me. She looked so sad, Bethany, like someone had smashed her heart under his boot."

"Are you _sure_ it was her? I can't imagine her doing anything but laughing."

Ella stared down at her feet.

"I want you to tell me _everything_ about your rescue, how she looked, what she said…"

The girl shifted back and forth and then settled, her head down. "I… It was a long time ago and I…"

"I just…" Bethany sighed. "I just want to know how she's changed. I saw her during the fighting, but she was no different than I remembered. She always laughed and made the worst, but the funniest comments about the most awful things. The Maker would have done well to make her _mouth_ Tranquil."

Ella shuddered.

"Will you sit down, already?" Bethany patted the small, empty spot on her plain bed. At least it was clean, unlike the stench-ridden mess she'd called a bed back in Gamlen's hovel. "You're making me twitchy."

"Maker, did you have to use that word? Dear Andraste, that memory…" But sit she did, finally.

"I'm sorry. I forgot about that nasty Ser Alrik."

"I… Well, it was your sister who rescued me twice that day."

"Who was with her?"

"Oh, Maker! I've wanted to forget that face, cracked and glowing. That booming voice. He was going to kill me!"

"A mage? Hair in a ponytail? Never applied a razor to his face, even if those stubbly hairs screamed for it?"

"A demon! An abomination!" Ella's trembling shook the bed. "Thank Andraste your sister was there! She calmed him long enough for me to run off."

"Oh, poor Anders! I used to think he was lucky, embracing a Fade spirit as he had. He was a good man, Ella, not a demon. He ran a clinic in Darktown for the poor. Something horrible must have happened to make him lose himself like that."

"You knew him?"

"What happened next?"

"I ran, hid behind a trash pile, but I thought I was dead when he rushed past me. I stayed hidden until your sister and the others followed."

"Who else, Ella?"

"Oh… An elf. A white-haired elf. And a lady, a guard."

"Fenris. I'm surprised he didn't rip your heart out. And Aveline, I should have guessed. Lyssie's best friends, though I can't imagine what she ever saw in that elf."

"Bethany, he would have killed me?" Her voice trembled as much as the bed.

"Oh, don't mind me. We just never got on. The elf has a thing about mages. All of us. Lyssie always claimed he had real reasons, but she was always a little strange in the head. Not all of us are Tevinter magisters. Did she say anything else to you?"

"Just told me I'd be safe at the Circle now that Ser Alrik was dead. She was so kind, even when she defended that abomination. She looked so sad when she mentioned the Circle, and when I told her you thought it wasn't so bad, her face just dropped."

"It was probably nothing."

"You said you haven't seen her since the Qunari left. Do you miss her?"

Far better the darkness than the sight of her too-small room. Bethany opened her eyes when her heart quieted. "Constantly. She was always my guardian and my refuge when Carver became too much to bear. But she's moved on now and has better things to do than visit the chain that held her back."

"I can't believe the woman who rescued me would think such a thing."

"Ella, sometimes you're too naïve for your own good."

"Tell me more about your sister. Tell me about the battle when she struck down that horrible Qunari."

"I want to say it was grand, a splendid story full of flashing blades and daring taunts, but… The Qunari hurt her. Badly. I wanted to scream, to heal her, to distract the beast. It moved like a demon, fast, like it didn't have to worry about things like legs. Maker's breath, I still get the shivers thinking of him and that awful Qunari murderer in Lothering! The First Enchanter kept me from barging into the throneroom. The moment Lyssie struck him down, I was glued to the crack in the door. She took a wind up, and crunched his _parts_ with the toe of her boot."

"She kicked him _there_?" Ella giggled and flushed bright red.

"That's the Lyssie I remember. She's changed, though, and maybe that elf had something to do with it. He goaded her into that fight with the Qunari."

"Didn't you agreed to visit with him?"

"Would Lyssie come any other way? Flames, now you've _really _made me twitch!"

Not that the Templar's arrival stopped the twitching any. Ser Thrask was a decent enough man for a Templar, possessed of the same sort of rationality that Wesley had once called his own. But a Templar was never good news, no matter how "kind" he might be.

"Serah Hawke is here to see you. She waits for you in the courtyard, and I am to accompany you there."

"Wish me luck," she muttered to a quaking Ella.


	2. Confront

Bethany hadn't been out in the courtyard for several days, and she basked in what little sunlight and heat remained. Before the Templar crackdown, she'd been allowed entire days to breathe in the salt air and to revel in the few hours of early afternoon light before the sun retreated behind the looming Gallows walls. She leaned her head back and let the warmth loosen the faint cramping in her shoulders. Ever since she'd received that funny little Bodahn's message, they'd ridden up close to her ears.

_Maker, why did Lyssie wait so long?_

And yet the rumors blazed their way from cell to cell like wildfire.

"_Did you hear? The Champion shouted down the Knight Commander in front of all of Kirkwall's nobility!"_

"_She supports all mages. The First Enchanter worships at her feet!"_

"_I heard she makes regular visits to the Gallows and does Meredith's dirty work."_

Bethany knew the last was at least partially true after meeting the de Launcet boy. _You've changed, Sis._ Then again, maybe she hadn't. The Starkhaven mages had begun their own kind of rebellion and her escort had fanned their flames to blazing. If only Lysandra had allowed them to go free… At the time, she had supported her sister's decision, fearing to kill even a single Templar, but if they had, perhaps the sun's warmth might not have been a luxury. Most feared to talk to these rebels, and it was their excesses that had led to complete lockdown for all but the Harrowed.

She shot a sour glance across the courtyard to that awful Grace. Somehow _she_ always managed to get outdoor privileges. _She's using Isabela's techniques with that Thrask—she must be! Why else? She's the most dangerous of the lot of us!_ Except that Isabela had always been kind, even if her mouth had been filthier than Gamlen's hovel.

The flash of pure white caught her eye before anything else and her shoulders rode up of their own volition. _Fenris. Dear Maker._ There was no mistaking that hair, and even in the shadows where he waited, it still blazed brighter than the exacting shine of the surrounding Templars' helmets. Bethany had to squint to make Lysandra out in the shadows. She waited, her head cast down, her hair a shroud that blended with her dulled armor. Only Ser Thrask's small cough forced Bethany's feet to move. She moved, but the air thickened around her until she had to wrench her way through molasses.

Lysandra's dull armor wasn't as dull as she expected, though the metal had somehow been forged black. She remained veiled beneath her shroud, which extended to the armor itself without a single break in color. Did the elf smell nothing as he stood beside her, one bare hand linked with hers? The reek was worse than that horrid, festering year-old cheese that Gamlen had forbidden Mother to burn. Bethany's stomach twisted; she'd hoped never to smell that stench again after the dragon had collapsed into a heap six years before. _More dragons, Sis? Is it so hard to scrub armor before you wear it?_

"Bethany," the elf said and bent over a little at the waist. His expression seemed half-pleasant, unlike the scowl she'd only slowly gotten used to when he'd looked her way.

"Fenris. I never thought I'd see you here. Well, not voluntarily, anyway."

"I do have a tendency to end up in strange places thanks to Andra." The elf had a nickname for her? More than a nickname—a special smile that seemed to light him up and made her see for the first time what Lysandra had seen all those years ago. _Maker, he's easy on the eyes!_

"Lyssie."

"Beth…" She'd never heard Lysandra's voice break. "I really like what Meredith has done with the place. The aura of oppression adds, I don't know, a certain _sophistication_ to the crude lines of those statues."

"Stop it, Lyssie! The Knight Captain stands beside you."

"Yes, I forgot—these fanatics do have a tendency to take out their ire on innocent targets." She met the shifting Cullen's eyes and gave him an almost saucy smile. "Beth had nothing to do with this."

No, Lysandra hadn't changed in the slightest. The elf grimaced, and it was only then that Bethany looked down at the two clenched and bare hands. Lysandra had never taken much to browning in the sun, but her knuckles had gone dead white, even more of a startling contrast to the elf's deepened skin.

"Andra!"

"You know, between the two of you, you nearly produce my name."

"So that's it? You're just going to joke and laugh as if nothing has changed?"

"I have a smile on my face. Isn't that enough?"

"Maker's breath, Lyssie, you're impossible! You show up all of a sudden after three years and expect a few jokes will suffice to smooth things over?"

"Beth, I…" The silence after lingered far too long, and Lysandra closed her eyes.

"That's right, say nothing! I don't even know why you bothered to come. It's obvious you don't want to visit."

"Things aren't as they may seem, Bethany," Fenris said. "Your sister has suffered…"

He ran his gauntleted hand through Lysandra's hair and guided her head to the one non-spiky part of his armor—a small patch between his shoulder and his neck.

"Suffered what? Living in a huge mansion in Hightown? Endless parties? The love and worship of the entire city of Kirkwall?"

It was only then that Bethany noticed the band of red around that gauntlet, and the way that scarf had been tied by a deft _female_ hand. Oh, she knew that knot, just as she knew that scarf.

"And then you gave _him_ that! Oh, Maker, Lyssie! How could you?"

Mother had tried to teach her to sew, tried and tried, but she'd never learned how to make her stitches regular, or to thread the needle properly. She'd labored _weeks_ on that little strip of fabric, trying to get the seams just right. She and Mother had ripped the seams out over and over, until one day something had clicked, and she'd finally produced a seam that didn't unravel, and almost looked straight if one didn't look too closely. She'd worked until late in the night every night on that thin little rectangle that matched her Lyssie's hair so she could have it ready for Lysandra's thirteenth birthday.

"Because it was everything," Lysandra whispered.

"I've never heard such nonsense! I can't… I just can't do this. Please, someone, escort me back!"

Bethany didn't bother to see which Templar accompanied her, and she didn't care. In her cell, she curled into a small ball on her bed and wished Thedas away.


	3. Regret

"He writes just like a child, doesn't he? And, Maker's breath, he shares her bed, but he can't spell her name!"

"I've never known you to be so cruel, Bethany," Ella said. "Is he as handsome as I remember?"

"Did you see this? 'L-i-s-s-andra?' Dear Maker, I never knew he was a simpleton!"

"I don't recall him being stupid. In truth, I don't recall him speaking at all."

Bethany set the letter down beside her on the bed. "I thought he was smarter than I was. He spoke that awful Qunari language to the Arishok and somehow kept that huge barbarian from killing us. Who knows? Maybe I was wrong."

"You said he was from Tevinter, didn't you? Maybe he writes in a different language."

"Maybe. I'm done talking about the elf, Ellie. Isn't there anything else we can talk about? The First Enchanter…"

"Why do you hate him so much? I've never known you to hate anyone."

"I don't know. Maybe I don't hate him, but he sure doesn't make it easy to like him."

"Why not? He didn't seem a cruel sort from what I saw of him."

Bethany stared at the scrawl that marred an otherwise clean and useful parchment. Part of her wanted to wipe the misshapen letters away in a lick of flame, but a tiny part almost appreciated the elf's primitive script. _He_ wanted to see her, even if she'd put Lyssie off visiting forever. _Maker, Lyssie, you don't make this easy._

"You didn't see much of him, Ellie."

The girl giggled. "No, not nearly enough."

The flush in the girl's cheeks and her laugh were almost infectious. Bethany quirked her lips.

"You really want to know? All right. The first time I met him, he called me a viper, right after Lyssie, Aveline and I saved him from shades and demons and slave hunters, and, well, only the Maker knows the rest. He told me I was better off in the Circle because I was 'a danger' to myself, to him, to Lyssie, and who knows who else. I'm sure he didn't." She let out a rueful laugh. "Maybe he was right, because I'm here, and he's out there, 'safe.'"

"He called _you_ a viper?"

"I told you he had a thing about mages. I could have been the second coming of Andraste herself in mage form and he'd still have said the same thing. And, yet, he seemed almost _happy_ to see me."

Ella leaned against the wall, her hands at her sides. Bethany wished she would just _relax_, though perhaps her stiffness was part of her charm. "Have you ever thought…?"

"What? Just say it, Ellie."

"Well, that things might have changed. You've been in the Circle for six years now, and…"

"And, what? Lyssie's no different. Still the same tongue, still the same attitude. I'm surprised the Knight Captain didn't strike her down on the spot—I wanted to."

"You don't really mean that."

She couldn't shorten the endless sigh that escaped her lips. It hissed out of her along with every last bit of air she'd gathered in her lungs until her head spun. She stared down at her feet and traced circles to steady her whirling mind and to silence her slamming heart.

"No, I suppose I don't. I miss her, and six years stuck here hasn't changed that."

"Didn't you say the Circle wasn't so bad, or were you lying to me?" The girl's smile eased the accusation in her words.

"Oh, it's not, I suppose. I never was free the same way Lyssie or Carver were. They'd go ranging all over the fields Mother and Father worked, while I'd be stuck inside until Father finally taught me to master my magic. Still, being held prisoner with your family isn't quite as bad as being held captive by Templars. At least you know your family loves you." Her eyes suddenly prickled and burned. "Lyssie never ran as far as Carver did—he'd be gone for hours, but she came and checked on me constantly as Father worked. She'd stay and play games or just joke around."

She wiped away the single droplet that escaped her lower lid. "No, the Circle isn't that bad. We have libraries, endless shelves of books… We could never afford such things at home, and the most magical tomes were banned by the Chantry. Lyssie and I reread this one book of legends Father scrounged over and over, oh, hundreds of times, I think. Have you ever gotten lost in our books, Ella? I'd heard stories about such storehouses of knowledge, but I couldn't even imagine them growing up in Lothering. The Chantry's few shelves were heaven to me."

"Are you going to see the elf, Bethany?" Ella perched on the edge of her bed, avoiding the letter.

"I don't suppose I have much choice, if I'm ever going to see Lyssie again. Maker, I really messed things up, didn't I?"

"Your sister must love you a great deal from the stories you tell. I can't imagine her holding a grudge."

"Why not? I insulted her lover and ran off like an idiot."

"You never told me why."

"And I'm sure Fenris was just as confused. I made her something a long time ago, when Lyssie was my world, and now he wears it as a token of conquest. Ugh, I've never understood that Ferelden custom!"

"You didn't call him 'the elf,' that time."

"I… Maybe I should allow him his name." She shuddered as his voice hissed _viper_ in her mind.

She'd never get used to Ella's flashes of wisdom. For such a quiet, mousy little thing, the girl took in far too much for her own good. "Maybe you should be easier on yourself and your sister. Six years is a long time, Bethany, and many things change. When you first came to the Circle, I was a little girl, just an apprentice. Now, I'm…"

"My best friend, Ellie. You're the best thing about the Circle, and if you weren't here…"

Ella's smile warmed her more than the courtyard's limited sun had. She didn't pay attention to the crumpling of parchment as she wrapped her arms around the girl, though when the embrace broke, her heart crumpled with it. If only she could have hugged Lyssie the same way…

_Thank you, VNV Nation, and your fantastic album, "Of Faith Power and Glory." I'd have never finished this chapter without its utterly perfect typing rhythm. _


	4. Mage and Elf

"It seems _secure_ here," the elf said.

Bethany gestured to her bed. "Sit, please. I wish I had a chair or a table, or…"

The elf nodded, the mop on his head bobbing. He sat at the foot, and she settled on her pillow at the head as gracefully as she could manage, though her bottom wobbled.

"There's much to be said for clean surroundings," the elf said.

She didn't intend her laugh to sound quite so bitter. "That's one thing this place has over Gamlen's shack."

"And security. Though that security counts for little these days."

"I gather you feel much better with me locked away."

"I suppose I deserve that."

"Suppose? You _suppose_?" She drew in a deep breath. "No, I wasn't going to do this. Tell me, why did you really come? You've never exactly been fond of me, as I recall."

"I have nothing against _you_, Bethany. You're a kind woman and one of the rare mages who can handle her power properly."

"Ah, I see: you have problems with every _other_ mage on Thedas, and you don't with me because Lyssie would have your hide. Even if you can't bother to spell her name properly."

"She did have my hide years ago." The elf smiled. "Tell me, how does one spell 'Lysandra' correctly? Andra hasn't had much time to work with me on my writing lately."

"'Work with you?' You almost sound as if she's teaching you!"

The elf looked away. "Slaves aren't permitted to read."

Her cheeks burned. "Oh… I'm sorry. I just… When you talked to that Arishok, I just expected that you… I'm making a right fool of myself, aren't I? You said Lyssie yelled at you about me? When was this?"

"You wished to have a laugh at my expense?" The elf smiled, his huge green eyes oddly friendly. "Andra would as well. She came to me in tears the night after you were taken to the Circle, not to talk, but to borrow a room."

_Borrow a room?_ "Why would Lyssie do that?"

"She needed a place to cry, she said, where your uncle and your mother wouldn't hear her. I badgered her at length to find out what happened, and when I finally got it out of her… She wasn't happy that I was… _relieved_."

She heard that deep voice hiss _viper_. "Relieved."

"She wasn't exactly what one might call _understanding_. She yelled at me for what felt like hours, but I'd listen to years of her yelling if I never had to see her…" He swallowed and looked away again. "Not that I've been successful, or that I haven't contributed to her… pain myself."

"She lives in our family estate, coin and finery everywhere, lauded to the four winds by every last person in Kirkwall. You say she hurts? How can she hurt?"

"That's what you think?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

The elf's lip twitched. "No, you would have no other way of knowing, would you?"

"If you're going to say something, just say it!"

The elf's deep laugh took her by surprise. "You're more like her than you believe. Have you never asked yourself what Andra would want, if she'd ever been given a choice?"

"What?" A sudden heat rushed to her cheeks and her stomach shrank in on itself.

"Most haven't. Most never even think to ask the question. I did once, but I never got a true answer. I don't believe she knows it herself."

"I... never thought of it either." She forced the admission out; if she hadn't, it would have chewed its way through her throat with pure bile. "Maybe I should have years ago."

The elf shook his head. "Perhaps the meaning I intended was lost in my musing. I'd only hoped to have you remember what Andra was like before I met you."

"All right… She was my everything. Another mother, my best friend. Maker, she was my _only_ friend until we settled in Lothering. Is that what you wanted to know?"

"She's changed very little, then." The elf smiled, and seemed lost in a memory. "As I thought."

The elf had seemed far more direct years ago, but Lysandra must have rubbed off on him more than she'd guessed. She cleared her throat and the elf's eyes focused.

"People change," she said. "It's been _six years_ since I've spent more than five minutes with her."

"So you claim. She has changed less than you imagine. Did she ever tell you what she truly thought of that dwarf's expedition?"

"You mean to the Deep Roads? No."

"She never wished to embark on the expedition. She considered it dishonorable, and would have preferred to… What was it she said? 'Wash some noblewoman's dainties in Denerim?'"

"She never said anything. I guess I always thought she wished what Mother and I did. Well, what Mother did. I can still only dream about fine dresses and mansions. Perhaps it's good that one of us still enjoys the dream."

"'Enjoys' isn't the word I'd choose. If you hadn't guessed, she despises your family's estate. She rattles around inside it, a single woman in a mansion that should house twenty. Your dog, the dwarf, and his son are the only things that keep her from going mad when she leaves my home, which has been less and less frequently as of late." The elf's smile turned faintly wicked, and her stomach lurched in response.

"She _hates_ the estate? After all that work we did for it?"

"Did you honestly expect otherwise?" The elf scratched his head, and the flash of red fabric set her heaving stomach ablaze. She flinched. "I seem to have offended you. If so, I apologize."

"No, not you. At least, not with this."

He half-smiled. "And you won't enlighten me. Andra didn't, not that she was in any condition to tell me anything."

"What do you mean, 'she wasn't in any condition?'"

"She mourns you, Bethany, just as she mourns your mother."

"That's ridiculous! I'm perfectly alive right now, thank you."

The elf's laugh startled her. "I never said it wasn't ridiculous. She blames herself for your imprisonment just as she blames herself for your mother's death."

"That's…"

"Ridiculous, I know. So is thinking that life in the Circle is similar to death."

"I was going to say, what Mother must have done. She blamed Lyssie for Carver's death, even though she was halfway across the clearing when he threw himself at the ogre. I was closer… I... And Mother's death—how could she know?"

"She couldn't. I was with her, and even your mother told her she wasn't to blame. Haven't you noticed your sister listens to the wrong words?"

"You were there when Mother died?" Of course he would be, if Lysandra had been. The elf was a permanent fixture in her sister's life. _More of a fixture than I have been._ "Tell me, what happened? Gamlen broke the news, but he told me nothing."

"Are you sure you wish to hear this? Your mother's death was far from clean."

"I… Yes. I have to know."

"We came upon your mother after our investigations led us to a hidden passageway beneath the foundry where we found those women's remains. A _mage_…" The elf spat the last word out with his customary venom, "had stitched a horror together out of the parts he'd salvaged from the dead women, and he sought to recreate his wife in that shambling nightmare. Your mother…"

"Maker's breath!" She gasped the words out as the world spun. She couldn't inhale.

"You guess the nature of the true horror, then. Yes, your mother's head had been attached to that _thing_, and her spirit had been bound within it."

"You killed him. You and Lyssie had better have killed him!"

"He didn't have an easy death."

She nodded, not that his words steadied her head any. Nor did they lend her assurance or any words of her own.

"Your mother's last words to Andra after we'd destroyed the mage and all his demon summons were, 'You've always made me so proud,' after she very specifically told Andra, 'don't fret, darling.' Not that those words would make her stop." The elf's laugh turned bitter. "I suppose you know how it is."

"And why would I…? Oh."

"Self-blame appears to be a Hawke family trait."

Her own laugh matched the elf's in bitterness. "We must have learned that from Father. Did you know Lyssie found his journal after his death? She hid it from Mother after she read his constant regrets for what our magic put Mother through. He risked everything to be with her and she with him, but he still felt horrible. _Mother_ was never sorry, and Lyssie couldn't bear to have her read it. Eventually, she burned it."

"That sounds very much like Andra."

She fiddled with her fingers and tented them in her lap. She hoped the motion would drive the sudden twisting in her stomach away and cool the heat in her cheeks. "Maybe."

The elf said nothing as he watched her intently from the other end of her cot. He _waited_, much as he'd done in one of his early scuffles with Lysandra, a scuffle he'd _won_ by his very patience. She knew what he waited for—an admission of what bothered here—but she was damned if she would give it to him. The staring became a heavy, palpable thing, a demon presence that thickened the air until she choked. He, of course, seemed as calm and unmoved as always. She twisted her fingers in her lap, then twined and untwined them until the elf broke.

"Tell me what offended you when Andra and I visited."

She sighed. "I'll just sound like a petty fool."

The elf's smile seemed almost sweet, almost reassuring. "Bethany, 'petty' is not a word I'd associate with you."

"Was that something nice you just said? About _me_?"

The elf's laughter took her aback. "I've never thought ill of you, just of the magic you wield. I've met _one_ mage strong enough to handle her power."

_She huddles by the fire and nothing stops the shivering. Lysandra slips in beside her. The elf had engaged her in a long debate about magic, rife with his endless, pointed questions about the Circle, and why she should be the exception to the Chantry's imprisonment of mages._

"_You need to stop bringing him with us, sis. I can't take him anymore!"_

"_He's a better fighter than Aveline, Beth. I need both of them; I can't take down enemies as quickly as he can, and I don't have a prayer of holding swarms off you."_

"_There's 'Bela. Or Varric."_

"_Not the dwarf! Besides, he can't hold a blade to save his life, and Isabela has all my weaknesses in combat."_

"_You just like looking at him."_

_Lysandra turns a brighter red than the flames that crackle before them. "Maybe a little. Take it easy on him, Beth. He's been through things you and I can't even imagine. He talks a good game, but we can trust him."_

"_Of __**course **__we can trust him." Lysandra smiles at her joke-that-really-isn't._

"_Really, Beth. Beneath all the bitterness is a good man who's been battered and mauled worse than one of Boy's chew-toys."_

"_You're not the one he's insulting!"_

"_I know." Her sisters arms feel welcome, but they aren't enough. "Still, you're the only one who can convince him to widen his perspective. You're making __**some**__ headway, you know. He doesn't scowl at you anymore."_

_Those words are small comfort as Lysandra joins her in staring into the flames._

"Lyssie's loved you for a long time. Longer than you think."

"I know. I wish I had proven myself worthy of that love."

She cracked a smile, though it felt like chiseling through marble. "The scarf she gave you… Well, I made it for her birthday years ago. It was the first thing I ever hemmed right, and probably the last."

The elf returned her smile, though something else lingered beneath it. What it was, she couldn't guess. "I asked for it, Bethany. When I did, she… It seemed as if her whole world had come crashing down around her."

"You asked her for it?"

"I… had no right after I walked out on her, but…"

She waited as the elf's voice trailed off, though he remained silent. "But what?"

He traced the scarf's length with one gauntleted finger. "She wore this the first time she visited me. I wanted a part of her so she'd remain forever in memory, even if I didn't have the courage to stay with her. She smiled when she tied it around my wrist, and that bereft look vanished."

"You love her, but you left her?"

"I… Yes, as a lover."

"You and Lyssie suit each other well."

The elf smiled. "Yes, I believe so."

"I mean it. You're both completely and utterly mad! Lunatics! Insane!"

The smile widened, and the elf actually laughed. "Perhaps. Perhaps I understand her better for my own 'lunacy.' I understand how it is to abandon one you love because your courage fails you."

"She faced down the Arishok! Don't tell me she's not brave."

"I have said no such thing. Andra's accomplished amazing things against odds that most would find daunting, at the very least. Now, she's off wandering through Sundermount graveyards to keep the blood mage from destroying everything. Not only has she freed Kirkwall from the Qunari, she's freed me."

"You mean that beast who enslaved you is dead? Good!"

"And a trail of hunters, his apprentice…" The elf's lips twitched upward.

"You're telling me Lyssie can kill anything and anyone, but coming to visit is too hard?"

"There's more than one kind of strength and one kind of courage. She takes up the burdens of any who need her, but she can never lean on another when her burdens become too much for her to bear. Facing failure, or what she thinks of as failure, isn't always as simple as one might think."

"She didn't fail!"

"Perhaps you should enlighten her."

"I don't think she's too likely to visit me after what I said."

The elf leaned toward her, his eyes intent. "You regret saying those words?"

"I… Yes. How am I supposed to tell her I'm sorry? I didn't…"

"Then you understand how she feels."

"I suppose." Not that "understanding" felt much better.

"I doubt Andra wishes an apology. I left her floundering and alone for three years, but she asked for nothing more than an explanation."

"Are you ever going to tell me why you're doing this?"

"I needed something to do while Andra sees to the blood mage." The elf's half-smile warmed her a little, though part of her wanted to throw a ball of energy into his gut.

"Ugh, you're worse than Lyssie!"

"A sister for a sister," he said, and fell silent.

"_Far_ worse. Maker's breath!"

"She stopped me from making a mistake…" She listened in horror as the elf told his story of betrayal and, ultimately, freedom.

"Your own _sister_! She makes Lyssie look like a saint. I… You've given me a lot to think about, Fenris."

"I should leave. It's been a pleasant chat, Bethany." The elf stood and reached for his massive sword.

"Wait! Don't go yet; I have something to show you."

The elf raised an eyebrow.

"If you're going to be _enjoying_ my sister, I can at least show you how to write her name."


	5. Lull and Storm

"Nicely done, Jillan." Bethany smiled at the tiny thing and delighted in the elf girl's giggle.

Six of the newest apprentices had gathered around one of the Gallows' smallest metal tables, specially cut down for little legs and stubby arms. She'd gathered six little bowls and had filled them each with a heaping handful of shavings. The little elf girl had gotten the hang of controlling heat far better than her classmates. Still, all of them had potential, even the slow Quinn, who'd only managed the smallest spark before the shavings had extinguished it without even a faint hint of smoldering.

"Mistress Bethany?" Quinn really was a darling, even if he hesitated in unleashing his power. _Just like Ella when she first came here._

"What is it?"

"I have to tell you in private," he whispered, his cheeks brilliant red.

He held his hand out, even as his eyes refused to meet hers. She let him lead her around the corner.

"Are you mad at me?"

"Why would you think such a thing?"

"I'm…" She swore his cheeks would burst into flame. "I'm scared."

"What scares you?" She crouched down next to him and touched his cheek. "There's nothing to be frightened of here."

"I can't…"

"Can't what, honey?"

"Light a fire," he whispered and clenched his eyes shut.

"Why not? You have just as much talent as every other mage here."

"They all want to kill us." His voice dropped to nothing. "They wait everywhere with their swords, just like when they found me."

"The Templars, Quinn? They're here to protect us."

"I heard you were an ap… apost-ate, Mistress. Did they hurt you?"

"No. They brought me here and put me through a test. I passed, and they've been… kind ever since." That wasn't _entirely_ true, but he was too young to understand that just yet.

"They caught me when I set a dog on fire, Mistress," he said, his blue eyes suddenly liquid. "It bit me, and it hurt me so bad. The lady whose dog it was- she told them about me. She didn't even give me a bandage!"

"Are you worried about what will happen if you use your power?"

He nodded and wiped his eyes.

"Aww, you poor thing!" She wrapped her arms around him. "You know why the wood is in that bowl?"

He shook his head and his unruly hair brushed her cheek.

"Does pottery burn?"

"It doesn't?"

"It's safe to use your power here. The table's metal, and takes more than a small flame to melt it. Even if you set a dog on fire…"

"I killed it, Mistress."

"It takes a lot more to melt metal than to broil a dog. I bet that mean old dog tasted good after you cooked him!"

The boy sniffed and choked on the peal of laughter that escaped him. "He was burned."

"Even better! I like my dog charred to a crisp."

He stared at her, his liquid eyes wide. "But… you're a Ferelden!"

She grinned and wiped away a tear that escaped his lids. "Yes, we love our dogs. Preferably lean and well-done."

"Nuh-unh! Mistress, you can't eat… Oh!" He smiled and a giggle followed not far behind. "You're silly!"

"Silly? Well, maybe a little. Remember, you're safe here, and I'm going to teach you everything you need to know to use your power properly. Magic's only dangerous if you don't know how to control it."

She smiled as she imagined Fenris' moue at her last words. _And I bet Lyssie would be laughing with me if she saw it, even if she secretly agreed with him._

"I shouldn't be scared?"

"There are plenty of things in Thedas to be scared of, honey. A bowl of wood chips isn't one of them."

Lucas' flames burned brilliantly when she returned and several of the other children looked on as it crackled in his dish. Anitra focused with all her might on her own bowl, her eyes narrowed. She was a sweet thing otherwise, but her competitive streak was either going to lead to trouble or drive her half mad. Today it was the latter.

"Burn! Burn, drat you!" The girl scrunched up her forehead, though brow-scrunching did nothing to strengthen a flame. She'd learn eventually.

"Are you ready, Quinn?" Bethany asked.

The back of his little blond head nodded as he settled back into his chair.

"Just let it free. We're all safe here."

Another tiny nod, and the head bowed a little lower over the bowl. A puff of smoke, and a sizeable ember flared bright as the chips caught his spark. She could almost feel the tremor as he let the power flow through him. Soon, the chips crackled and blazed bright, and she felt the faintest ripple of heat as she stood behind him.

"There," he said, his voice full of wonder. "I did it, Mistress! I did it!"

"You did! All of you did very well today," she said. "You'll be proper enchanters yet!"

"Thank you, Miss-triss," the children sang with that oh-so-annoying formality the First Enchanter had taught them. If she'd had a choice, she'd have had them call her "Bethany."

Ella waited for her outside her quarters as always, though this time the girl launched right at her instead of twitching timidly as she usually did.

"You never told me how your visit went. What did Fenris say? He was so kind when I thanked him."

"Only because you were safely locked away."

"He seems nice, Bethany, and not at all like you described him."

"Maybe… I'm being unfair, aren't I? He's different now. More reasonable. When I knew him years ago, he was a bitter, broken thing who never stopped talking about how horrible magic was all the time, nonstop. I don't think he had anything else to talk about."

"Was he scared of you?"

"You know, I never really thought about it." She took a deep breath. "Maybe he was. Maybe whatever that beast was who enslaved him made him scared of mages. Lyssie might have been right… No, she was. He's a good man underneath it all."

"That's a change," Ella said and giggled. "He's more handsome than I remembered. And, Bethany, that voice!"

"Are you jealous of Lyssie? Ella, really?"

The girl snorted. "If only some of the mages here were half as pleasing to the eye…"

_Not that we'd ever have a chance to see what might happen._ She fought back the wave of loneliness she constantly suppressed once she left the children. She'd never have any of her own, and would never train them as Father had taught her.

"No, fortunately they're not. You don't really think he's attractive, do you?"

"Bethany, you don't?"

"Elves just look, well, different. A man shouldn't be thinner than I am."

"You're not a very good liar, Bethany."

"What? They do, and they shouldn't!"

"Dinner's ready," Ella said, her smile uncharacteristically wicked.

As Bethany snuggled beneath the covers hours later, full bellied and strangely content, she mused over Ella's crush on the elf. The voice was something when it wasn't full of hatred, she supposed, though his apparent scrawniness and odd markings made him look like a half-starved tiger. _Oh, Ella! If only you'd seen some of the lads in Lothering…_ She snickered and burrowed deeper into her blankets' warm embrace. _I just wish my bed in Lothering had been as comfortable, let alone that mat thing in Gamlen's hut._ She was halfway to dreaming when she thought she heard a muffled male voice.

"…shee wa-ay-k?"

"Who?" she asked, though she couldn't think the words properly.

"Flames! She's awake!"

She squinted in the strong light beam she only vaguely recognized as coming from the door. Two nightmares of sculpted silver, flashing more blinding spikes into her eyes, hovered over her, and two sets of armor clattered in counterpoint as the helmets closed in. _Templars! Oh, Maker!_ She opened her mouth, but a metal hand clamped her jaw shut. The scales scraped against her lips, and she half-wondered if she bled. Worse was the chill that traveled down deep into her gut as another hand grabbed her wrists.

"Calm yourself, Mistress Bethany," one said. "You're coming with us."

"Did I…" But it came out as grunts beneath the frigid glove.

"You're taking too long!" A female voice from the hallway, familiar, but as Bethany struggled against her bonds, she couldn't place it. "Will you knock her out already?"

"But he said not to hurt her!"

"Do I have to do everything myself?"

Yes, she recognized that voice, but the spattering of liquid that soaked her face her and took her down into blackness kept her from finishing the thought.

_Gr…_


	6. Rescue

**Author's note**:_ About the previous chapter... Ella's seventeen or eighteen by my reckoning, hormonal, and not at all experienced with (attractive) men. Only the most hostile of words would put her off. Also, she only has Bethany's rather over-dramatic assessment of Fenris' character to judge him by, so she's willing to extend him the benefit of the doubt. That, and she really can't think too badly of one of her rescuers. I fancy Fenris was actually embarrassed and irritated, but still civil at Ella's endless gushing. Major apologies for the A/N. Would have gone for a personal reply, but for the system being totally borked right now with the interface "upgrade."_

* * *

><p><em>She can almost feel her arms and legs in the endless grey, but, though they're as weightless as her body, her fingers and toes don't respond when she tries to wiggle them. She strains to move them with all her focus, but her will is a boulder, and she can't put a shoulder behind it. She tries to reach for the Fade, to draw its energy into her, but there is nothing beyond this nothingness. All she can do is float, no matter how she wishes to struggle. She surrenders to the nothingness and floats as what remains of her is subsumed.<em>

_Voices, small echoes, and they all speak nonsense… Angry flaring of energy pierces the grey. A splash of warmth on her face again, and she can move her eyelids. Feeling returns only slowly, and she grips at small nubbins… Sand? Her eyes twitch and she flinches from brightness. Has she opened her eyes? She's just as blind as she was floating. She clenches her eyes shut, and forces herself to her feet as the voices converge in an almost perverse harmony._

"Beth? Oh, Beth! What did they do to you?"

_Lyssie._

She forced her eyes open, only to be surrounded in crimson. Crimson floating before her, perhaps coating her nose, liquid crimson soaking into the sands, the draped crimson fabrics adorning a field of dead Templars. Crimson drenched Lysandra from head to toe in slaughterhouse splotches, the same crimson that drenched Fenris, Aveline, and a gaunt, black-clad Anders. She shook her head and squinted at the overly bright sun that never stopped hovering over this accursed strip of land. Six years hadn't diminished its harshness in the slightest, and the crimson did little to color the washed out sands. Even the earthen rocks seemed colorless under the sun's assault.

_The Wounded Coast? Oh, Maker, how did I end up here?_

"You see, Champion, she lives."

_Grace. Grace's little toady, and, Andraste's pantaloons, is that Ser Thrask lying dead?_

"What happened?" she managed. "The last thing I remember is the Templars coming into my quarters."

"I promise, I'll never let anything like this happen again," Lysandra said.

She remembered that tone, quiet and assured, but deeply pained, when Lysandra had comforted her after Father's death. Had Lysandra ever wept? Likely no, or not that she could speak of. _Fenris can't be right, can he?_ Even beneath the charnel coat Lysandra wore, the deep lines that only grief could etch were evident at the corners of her eyes. _Be kind—it won't kill you. She did save your life somehow._

"Thank you. It's good to know you're still looking out for me."

Lysandra smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Alw—" The rest of the word got lost to the relentless clanking of a company's worth of armor.

_Maker, the Knight-Captain!_

She could only watch half-dazed as her sister dueled with the stolid Templar. The toady squeaked in protest about what a "fine lady" the Champion was, and she reeled as she only slowly pieced together what happened. _Kidnapped as blackmail. Did these fools know anything about Lyssie? At all?_ Her sister spoke up for the remaining mages and asked they be treated with mercy, far more than they deserved. She'd have gladly brought fire down upon every last one of them, but even Lysandra ignored her for the moment.

A Templar grabbed her arm at the Knight-Captain's orders to, "Take them away," and she almost protested. The man's stark and inhuman helm silenced her. _Her_ Templar fell in line last in the formation, which gave her an unfortunate chance to watch what followed.

"Is it standard Templar practice to show up _after_ someone else has done all the hard work?" Lysandra asked. "Thank you oh-so-kindly for not saving my sister from the traitors under _your_ command."

_Not now, Lyssie. In fact, never's a good time for such talk!_

"And you treat her like a criminal! Need I remind you that _your_ failure allowed these cretins to take her captive?"

"Move," the Templar said. She almost missed the word in his grunt.

She followed, Alain just ahead. She caught Lysandra's eye as she passed, and her sister's mouthed words, _I'll fix this, Beth._ Those words were less than no comfort. When they cleared Lysandra's little party, the Templar relaxed his grip, and when the coastline passed into Kirkwall's bordering farmlands, he let go entirely.

"Why, Alain?" she asked.

"Grace…"

"Yes, she had you wrapped around her little finger, didn't she? Is there anyone she didn't bed?"

"I…"

"Yes, obviously you never did. Just as you supposedly renounced blood magic."

"Bethany, I'm sorry."

"Yes, I'm sure you are. Very sorry. Contrite, even."

"I swear, if I survive this, I'll make it up to you." The boy, though he was likely older than she, trembled as he spoke and his Templar grunted as he staggered.

"There's nothing you could do to make this better. How would _you_ feel if two Templars woke you in the middle of the night and knocked you out?"

"I…"

"Maybe they'll do that every night to you when it's time for questioning. Andraste, please make it so!"

"If you beg pardon, Bethany, you're nothing like your sister."

"Well, thank you. I suppose I'll take that in a kind and _charitable_ way, much like such a 'fine lady' might."

"She sought mercy for me, but you, you're… spiteful!" He hurled the last word like an accusation.

She'd never wanted to set something so innocent-looking ablaze before, and she struggled to hold the flames in. "Well, the moment you take Lysandra captive and subject _her_ to blood magic, then sing of her magnanimity when she wakes, I'll listen to your stupidity. Until then, keep your blighted mouth shut!"

"I doubt I could take her hostage," the idiot said. "She's Champion for good reason."

"Please, Ser," she said to her Templar, "shut him up!"

The Templar's chuckle echoed within his metal encasing. "With pleasure, mage."

She did her best to swallow her giggles when the boy cringed away from the harsh grip of a second Templar gauntlet.


	7. Exhale

Ugh, if she never had to sit through questioning again, it would be far too soon. Bethany leaned back in her chair as Ser Hugh made her run through what little she remembered of her kidnapping for the fifteenth time. Only a goblet of water, kept full by a scurrying apprentice, kept her voice from cracking. She would gladly have roasted the little thing on a spit and devoured her in three bites had she been granted the opportunity. Visions of roasted venison and gravy-drenched potatoes danced before her; she couldn't count just how many hours it had been since her last dinner. At least she'd become efficient at recounting her tale; her voice had taken on the precise rhythm of an ox-drawn cart.

"And there's nothing else you can tell us, mage?"

"No. How many times to I have to tell you that I know _nothing_?"

"Wait here."

She twiddled her thumbs round and round for three revolutions before the repetition drove her mad. She took a delicate swig from the goblet, but not too much. A trip to the privy wouldn't happen any time soon, slow as Ser Hugh had been in asking the same blighted questions over and over. She hadn't braided her hair in years, not since Lysandra had last helped her weave it into an elaborate coif for Father's funeral. _You have to choose now to intrude, don't you, memories?_ She separated a clump from the rest of her hair and split it into three even sections and twisted them about each other as the apprentice watched her from her little cowering –spot by the door. She wasn't worried, not really, for the Templars had always dispensed justice quickly if they truly believed a mage was a danger. Ser Hugh's leisurely pace hardly indicated trouble.

She'd started in on the second strand when the door creaked and the apprentice shot several feet into the air. _Maker, I was hoping for a new hairstyle._ She untangled her hair as best she could as a tiny figure worked its way slowly through the crack. First a little hand, then the full arm, and then the very tip of a turned-up nose appeared, followed, finally, by a pair of huge blue eyes.

"Mistress?" The hand may have been little, but the voice was even tinier.

"You can come in, Quinn. It's ok."

"The Templar… He told me to come get you."

She tottered as she stood, her legs numb and tingling.

"Mistress!" The little boy ran toward her.

"I'm just a little stiff is all. They've had me in here awhile." Her stomach protested, and Quin giggled.

"I could roast a dog for you."

"You know, I might just take you up on that."

The boy grinned. "Mistress, you have a visitor. An elf."

She nodded. _Maker, what does he want?_

The boy led her back to her quarters, where not only Ella twitched uneasily as she leaned against the doorframe, but Fenris stood before her bed. The girl shot quick looks at the elf when she thought he wasn't looking, then flushed and stared at the floor. Fenris outright avoided the girl's gaze, and seemed to find the book on her nightstand endlessly fascinating. _Can he even read the title?_ "Flames, Great and Small…" She'd loved that book from the time she first learned to read at Father's knee.

"Bethany!" the girl said and rushed her.

She staggered with an armful of Ella. "Oh, Andraste! We were so worried about you!"

"One of the Templars said you ran away," Quinn said, his voice accusing. "They said you were part of a… a… con-peer-see."

"A what?" Ella still hadn't disengaged, and she spoke over the girl's shoulders.

"Conspiracy, Bethany," Ella said. "I knew you wouldn't run off, and Fenris told me you were taken prisoner by conspirators."

Her stomach grumbled loud enough for the rest of Gallows to hear it.

"Maker, they haven't fed you? It's been two days, Bethany!"

No wonder she thought her stomach was going to pop out her throat and swallow her head-first. Fenris cleared his throat, and she swore to herself as Ella finally let go. The girl ran off with a promise to return with some bread from the kitchen and Quinn glued himself to her waist. She ruffled his hair absently and waited for the elf to speak.

"Bethany," he said after a short pause and bowed slightly. "I see you're well."

"If 'well' means that my stomach is screaming a demon's opera, then, yes."

Fenris rummaged in his pack and straightened with a small box. He smiled as he handed it to her. "Not the best of provisions, but they should quiet you for a short visit."

Ox jerky. Not usually her favorite, but right then, even a pile of dirt would have tasted grander than the finest braised lamb shank. She chewed as Quinn squeezed, and as the elf eyed her tiny charge with typical Fenris-like suspicion. The screaming in her stomach turned to a melodic aria as she swallowed the first bites, and her tongue sang along in contralto. _Maker, this __**is**__ the best thing I've ever tasted._

"Thank you. You know, I used to hate this when…" She stopped to take another bite.

"Hunger changes one's perspective quickly," Fenris said.

She caught his unconscious grimace. "When you were running away?"

The elf's bitter laugh took her aback. "No. The true irony was, even penniless and living off what I could scrounge or steal, I still ate far better than when I was Danarius' thrall."

The chewed clot caught in her throat and she hacked. Quinn clutched tighter at her waist. "Mistress?"

She swallowed and swallowed, and the world went blurry as small streams leaked from her eyes. A strong arm surrounded her shoulders, and the elf said, "Mageling, I could help your 'Mistress' if you _let go_."

She sputtered as he steered her to her bed. "You'll choke less if you sit."

She forced the rest of the bits down and wiped her eyes, only to be met with a goblet and a tiny frowning face when she opened them. "Mistress?"

She sipped and took a breath. "I…" She coughed. "I'm fine."

"Then you should leave, mageling."

"But Mistress…"

"Fenris, stop! He's just a boy."

"The most dangerous kind of mage."

"Is he going to hurt me, Mistress?" He gripped her hand and tried to squeeze, though his trembling interrupted his grasp.

"Don't be silly, honey. Fenris doesn't like magic, but you're safe." She shot what she hoped was a pointed glare at the elf. "At least, I'm assuming you're not going to hurt him. Tell you what, Quinn, go give Ella a hug, and then go play with Jillan until bedtime."

She knelt beside the boy and gave him a hug.

"Was that necessary?" the elf asked.

"Yes, very necessary. I didn't think you'd be frightened of an eight year old child!"

"I don't wish to fight with you, Bethany. I'm here for another purpose."

"Does Lyssie know you were starved as a slave? What kind of awful creatures are these magisters, anyway? I've never heard of such barbarism!"

"Andra knows."

"Maker."

"Andra's waiting for you."

She swallowed. "And she isn't here?"

Fenris smiled a little too wryly for her taste. The more time she spent with him, the more he reminded her of Lyssie. "She isn't permitted inside the Circle grounds. The Knight-Commander doesn't take too kindly to being told that _she_ is the cause of Kirkwall's mage problems. Her rather personal vendetta has been couched in terms of Andra's supposed 'bad influence' on mages. As much of a talking-to as she's likely giving the Knight-Captain right now, I can't say I blame the Templars."

"Dear Andraste, not one of her lectures! Doesn't she understand such talk only makes things worse here?"

"Worse or no, she did 'free' you. Hours of her insults could wear even the strongest of men down to nubbins. They were going to hold you in custody for another day until they'd 'verified' things enough. The way you're gnawing at that jerky, I'm not so sure you could have withstood it."

"I suppose I'll have to thank her." Fenris eyed her sidewise; apparently her bitterness showed more than she thought.

"Maybe you should."

She took a deep breath, and then took twice as long letting it out. Her head reeled as she took in her next breath. She tried not to give in to the flames that broiled in her gut.

"That boy loves you."

"Quinn?" She thanked the Maker for the distraction. "Yes, he's a dear little thing. They brought him in two weeks ago, bloody and screaming. A dog took a huge chunk out if his leg and the lady whose beast attacked him didn't bother to spare him a bandage before she sicced the Templars on him. Poor thing will always walk with a limp. We can only be grateful that there's a tradition of robe-wearing here; pants will always hang strangely on him."

"Bread, Bethany! And I got you a little… oh…" Ella flushed bright red. "Soup, yes, soup!"

"Eat," Fenris said. "Andra can wait a few more minutes."

"Messere, I know you told me the Champion isn't allowed in here, but could you give me her thanks again?"

"Yes, of course," Fenris said. "You already asked that of me and I haven't forgotten."

"No, of course not." The girl's cheeks hadn't returned to their normal walnut shade. "I'm glad you're all right, Bethany."

Ella set the bowl and the plate down on her little table on top of her book. Oh, Maker, did the soup smell fantastic! She had the bowl in her hands almost before Ella let go, and the first spoonful made its way down her throat in a searing chorus. Vegetables in a lamb broth, with chunks of… pork, was it? She devoured it without pausing as Fenris looked on, no matter how her throat blazed and her tongue swelled.

"Thank you, Ella," she said, her tongue a heavy lump in her mouth. "This…"

"Of course, Bethany," the girl said. "Tell me how everything goes." The last half-whisper Ella mouthed with exaggerated movements, and Fenris snorted.

"Very subtle, Ella."

"Yes, well… Thank you again, Messere!" The girl darted off into the hallway.

"Ella seems quite enamored with you."

"As the mage boy is with you."

"I know you're dying to ask me something, so just do it already!" She took a bite of the fluffy white cloud that waited on her plate.

"You act as if you're his mother."

"I…" Her throat slammed shut, and she resorted to chewing the sticky mass until it turned into a glue.

"If this is too personal, I won't ask any further."

"Not personal," she said after she forced her bite down. "Just… well… I can't have any children here and I never will. The Templars… well, they take them away, and only the Maker knows what happens to them!"

"Hm." If she read Fenris' expression properly, something alien appeared there. It couldn't have been what she almost thought it was.

"Well, now that I've bared my soul to you, I'll just stuff my mouth."

"You remind me a great deal of someone," he said.

"_Your_ mother?"

"No, I barely remember her at all. Only a few flashes, almost like a dream. I was thinking you remind me a little of your mother, and of Andra even more."

"Mother, well, she did what she could."

"As do we all."

"It wasn't easy for her, and the choice she made… You were thinking something else, though. What was it?"

"I was wondering… "

"What?"

"No, it would be too painful, just as it seems to be for you."

"You want to know what Lyssie would be like as a mother? Can you imagine her putting down her knives? Even for a moment?"

"She would have for you. She told me that she helped raise you."

Suddenly, she didn't think she could eat that second slice of bread, no matter how her stomach protested. "She did. Mother spent most of her time with Carver, the little demon that he was. Lyssie…"

She took a deep breath and waited for the memory to fade, but instead it took her over.

"_Look, Lyssie, Carver tore her arm off!"_

_Little Lysandra looks up from the book Father scrounged. "Well, we'll just have to fix her up, won't we, Beth?"_

"_But I can't…"_

"_Mother!" Lysandra darts off, leaving her alone with a ripped up and dismembered Mary._

_The doll drips stuffing onto the floor as her tears wet her smock. She looks around, but the room she shares with Lysandra isn't any comfort, blurred as it is. She waits, her heart slamming. She's too weak to smack Carver, too little. Lysandra does her best to defend her, but Mother always intervenes before Lysandra can lay down the law. The shortest moment feels like a year when you're a babe._

"_Look, let's pretend," Lysandra says. "Mary's going to the healer right now, a man more skilled than Father." _

_She carries a huge basket—Mother's sewing basket, full of sharp pointy needles and yards of lace. Soft threads. Mother has tried to teach her to thread a needle, but she can't._

"_Father can fix her, can't he, Lyssie?"_

"_I don't know how magic works, and Father's hoeing the potatoes today so he can't tell you."_

"_She's hurt, Lyssie!"_

"_Come here, and sit down." Lysandra gestures at the bed. "I have my grimoire and staff right here, and I'm ready for the Fade to help us!"_

"_You sound silly!"_

"_Well, if you want her to get better, you have pretend right, don't you? So call on the energy and help me heal her!" Lysandra finds a spool of white thread and, with nimble fingers she can only hope to equal one day, has the end through the eye of a needle in a single deft motion._

"_That isn't how magic works!"_

"_Well, I'm not a mage, am I? That's you, Beth! So, think about Mary all fixed up, in one piece, and we'll heal her."_

_She hasn't learned to control the power that boils in her. Not yet, though Father has been trying. Instead, she prays to the Maker, to Andraste to intercede as Lysandra slips the needle in and out, and in little time, the arm is back on. Bits of stuffing still spill out between Lysandra's large, even stitches, but as she pulls the doll's dress sleeve down, the stuffing vanishes._

"_Look, Beth, she's healed!"_

_She'll never take the dress off the doll again, just so she can pretend that her Lyssie has worked a miracle. She hugs her big sister, and wishes like always that she'll grow up just like her, and her magic will go away._

She pulled the covers back and lifted her pillow. Fenris gave her a sideways glance, but said nothing as she pulled out Mary, stained from trips across Ferelden, the flight and the boat trip to Kirkwall. She pulled up the sleeve for the first time in years.

"I only wish I could wield a needle half as well. Carver ripped her to bits, but Lyssie 'healed' her using her own kind of magic."

The elf clenched his eyes shut. "As I thought. Likely any child born to us would be cursed as you were."

"That's not true, is it? Lyssie isn't a mage, and you're not."

"Varania is. There's magic on both sides."

"Oh…" Her word was only an exhalation.

"Not that Andra would care, but… Eat your bread and gather your strength."

"Right," she said.

And took another deep breath.


	8. Tiny Steps

"Go on," Fenris said.

Bethany had stopped dead at the head of the stairs that led down into the courtyard. High afternoon had faded to deep black, but even the faint orange flickering of several oil lamps did little to pierce the gloom. _Quinn should have been in bed hours ago…_ Still, she knew the huddled form at the base of the steps, though the lamps focused elsewhere. The woman sat hunched over, her head bent low over her knees, flanked on either side by a pair of Templars. The legions of corpses strewn about her on the bleached sand earlier that afternoon should have told the Templar hierarchy that a mere four of their number wouldn't be able to stop her should the woman decide to launch an assault. There was no mistaking the daggers that rode in twin sheaths or the spikes of that hideous armor Lysandra had taken to wearing, even though they were but deep silhouettes.

"I can't."

"Andra's been waiting hours for you. At least eight."

"She had you for company. It couldn't have been all bad."

"One of the kinder things you've said to me." She could barely make out his smile, though the moon reflected on his teeth. "And she hasn't for several hours, at least."

"You left her alone?"

"Blood stiffens. Andra doesn't seem to be as finicky. She also had a little yelling to do, as I mentioned."

"And you let her."

"One can't 'let' Andra do anything; she does as she wills. I didn't necessarily agree with what she was going to say, so I figured it best to remove myself. And perhaps have a bath."

The silhouette moved and seemed to creak as it moved to its feet. A sensual stretch that reeked of Lysandra, and the figure groaned as it made its way up the stairs.

"Since when did you two start getting on?" Lysandra asked. "I was wondering if that was truly my sister and my, er…"

If she could have seen anything, it would have been a faint flush on her sister's cheeks.

"Bethany and I had a chat a few days ago," Fenris said, "and I didn't end up charred to a cinder."

"A miracle, then," Lysandra said. "I suppose you'll tell me about the chat one of these days."

"Maker!" she swore. The blackness wore on her, as did seeing Lysandra as little more than dark spots in deep grey. She called a small ball of light and held it out. "You're still as caked as you were this…"

"Morning. Maker's breath, has it really been that long? It feels like ages since you left." She sidled up to the elf and slipped an arm around him.

"Bethany needed to eat."

"You needed to… Andraste's arse, they never fed you? You! Barbarians!" She yelled down at the Templars in that strident tone that used to shred Carver to ribbons. "I understand you don't bother to _feed_ the mages in your care!"

"Lyssie, stop! You're not going to make things better, you know."

"So the next time someone takes you captive because they're trying to get to me, you want to starve as these idiots treat you like a criminal all over again?"

"Andra, you may wish to listen to your sister," Fenris said.

"I _live_ here, Lyssie. These men guard me."

"I…" A long sigh, and in the faint silver light, Lysandra clenched her eyes shut. "All right. Fine. I suppose I'm not the one protecting you anymore, am I?"

_Is this the sadness Fenris spoke of?_

"You'll survive," Fenris said with that oddly alluring laugh of his.

"I'm so sick of kowtowing to that harridan! She _owes_ me, dammit! And I know my last outburst cost me the favor she keeps hanging over my head…"

"Favor? What favor?"

"To transfer you to Ferelden's Circle. She keeps promising she'll allow it if I run endless errands for her since her flaming Templars are too busy terrorizing Kirkwall to do their jobs."

"You want to send me away?" Quinn's face, contorted in fear as the Templars brought him in, flashed behind her eyes. "Lyssie, how could you?"

"I want you to be safe."

"That's it? You just want me to go because I'm not 'convenient?'"

"You've already suffered because of me. Something's going _very_ wrong in Kirkwall, Beth, and you're only going to suffer more when whatever it is explodes. Fenris and I have been talking… I miss Ferelden, and…"

"And you're going to leave."

Lysandra nodded. "The Divine's planning an Exalted March on Kirkwall, and things are only going to get worse, especially with these idiots in charge. Meredith has already lost control of Hightown to a cabal of blood mages, and the plotters… Maker's breath! They make Petrice look like a master!"

The elf snorted. "Fools, indeed."

"If they were so foolish, how did they take me?"

"Magic." A bitter laugh. "You'd think if you were trying to lure the Champion of Kirkwall out and blackmail her, you'd at least send her a note. We only found you because Orsino wanted me to spy on a gathering of mages who would go missing every once in a while. We'd killed over half the conspirators before we even found out that you were taken. And that was only because that idiot, Keran, decided to tell me that they'd kidnapped you! I should have killed him."

Lysandra still baffled her sometimes. "For telling you about me?"

"For being an idiot _and_ for being part of that ridiculous plot. As stupid as the conspirators were, Meredith's Templars are a thousand times worse! They watch over the Circle, and they had _no idea_ anything suspicious was going on?"

"I'm not leaving, Lyssie."

"Bu… No, I'm sure you have your reasons for risking your life, and some of them may even be worthy." The tone was too flat, too lifeless to come from her. The eyes, deep, even in the silver light she'd summoned, clenched shut.

"How very gracious of you to allow me my reasons."

The elf's eyes narrowed, but whether in reproach at her or at Lysandra, she couldn't tell. No, likely it was at her, for a mage surely ranked lower in his esteem than the woman he loved.

"I'm sorry, Beth," Lysandra said. "I'm not very good at this, am I?"

"No, you're not."

A grunt from the elf, a _disapproving_ grunt. _He probably wants me to fall down at her feet and worship her like all the rest of the city seems prone to do._ Lysandra's mouth twitched up at the corners; she'd never been one to take insults personally.

"I probably deserved that. Well, I should go, I suppose. I'm glad you're safe, Beth."

"And after all that, you're just _leaving_? Maker's breath, Lyssie, don't you understand anything anymore?"

"Tell me what you want from me," Lysandra said.

"I… I want my sister back, but I can't…"

"Can't what?"

"You say you're leaving."

"Hopefully soon. We'll see how many other Dalish clans need to be massacred first."

She held her globe a little closer and noticed deep shadows around Lysandra's eyes, canyons cut deep from creases. Closer still, and she couldn't miss the small droplets that glimmered like stars in the corners of Lysandra's eyes. _Maker, she's exhausted!_

"You destroyed Merrill's clan on Sundermount? Why, Lyssie?"

"The blood mage brought ruin upon all her kin, much as anyone sane might have predicted." Despite Fenris' words, she heard no condemnation in his voice. … _She's off wandering through Sundermount graveyards to keep the blood mage from destroying everything_.

"If I understood it, I… I can't do this anymore, Beth. I just can't."

"Do what? Be my sister?"

"You've seen how well I've protected Kirkwall and Carver and Mother and… you… Promise me you'll think about leaving for Ferelden! I already lost you once. I can't do it again!"

She hated the heaviness in Lysandra's voice, so different from the acid humor that had been her usual habit. "I… Look, you seem exhausted, Lyssie. Get some sleep, and I'll… I won't promise anything."

Lysandra nodded. "Sleep's been scarce lately, but… Eat! I'll see you tomorrow if you're willing."

She forced a smile. Even after her long magical sleep, she felt the Fade and dreams beckoning. "Go, Lyssie. Maker willing, we'll both be in better sorts tomorrow afternoon."

Even in the blackness, Lysandra's smile lit the courtyard. She hadn't seen that smile in years, and she'd forgotten just how much it had warmed her.

"Until tomorrow, then," Fenris said.


	9. Connections

"Can I meet the Champion, Mistress?" Quinn asked after she'd sent the rest of the children off to lunch.

"Maybe, if the Templars allow it."

"And she's really your sister?"

"Well, you don't need to sound so impressed!"

The boy flinched and those ruby rosebud lips that would be the envy of any girl curled into a pout.

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry! Lyssie and I… Well, we're not close anymore. She's barely my sister."

The boy's eyes grew large and liquid, but he nodded. She crouched beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"You remember the dog you roasted… Well, imagine if the dog was your sister, and instead of biting you, it used to love you, but suddenly stopped. I wouldn't mind baking Lyssie a little. Just until she's tender."

Quinn wrapped his tiny arms around her. "Then I'll protect you from that dog, Mistress."

_And maybe he'll make Lyssie understand why I can't leave._

The Templar who fetched her some time later seemed oddly subdued and only offered a curt nod when she requested Quinn's company and Ella's. _Maker!_ Her stomach threatened to take off from the swarming of what was surely a billion butterflies. _It's just Lyssie._ And yet, it had never been _just Lyssie_. _Just Lyssie_ would never have given up her chance to go fishing with Carver and his big-brother-friend who she'd been watching for months to stay home and play another endless rendition of "house," because Father hadn't brought in enough coin for a new toy. _Just Lyssie_ would never have shrugged off her earnest urging to "go marry him or make him your boyfriend," and then played dolls as if there was nothing she'd rather be doing. She would never have begrudged herself her power and wished she could be as talented with a blade if there had ever been _just Lyssie_.

"Oh, Bethany, are you sure you want me to come with you?" Timid, but clear behind the wall of Templar that approached her.

"You said you wanted to thank 'the Champion' yourself, didn't you? And Quinn wants to meet her too."

"But… I thought you said your last meeting didn't go well," Ella said.

"Well, it was better than the first, but… Lyssie needs to see…"

"That you don't wish to go to Ferelden? I'd miss you horribly," Ella said.

"Ferelden? Mistress?"

"Not that I think the Knight-Commander would be so gracious as to grant her that request. So far, that seems to be the only reason I'm still here."

"Move," the Templar said. "The Champion is waiting."

Quinn's hand quieted some of the jumping in her belly and Ella chattered and caught her up on the gossip she'd missed, not that she cared much for the connections that Ella insisted on tracking in exhaustive detail. Still, it was better to know, since the First Enchanter didn't follow too many of the day-to-day goings on, and he'd sometimes ask for her input. The walk through the long corridors didn't seem quite so endless with Quinn's tiny hand squeezing hers, nor with Ella's warm chatter brightening her.

She squinted as the sun met her unshielded eyes. Lysandra blazed brilliant fire where she stood at the base of the stairs, her hair pure flame. As always, it seemed, the elf was with her, a streak of light, his armor glittering pure copper. She shielded her eyes and as she did, her sister's smile blinded her just as much. Ella ran for both of them as the Templar shook his head. Quinn hesitated at her side, but kept pace as she took tentative steps forward.

"Champion," Ella cried. "I never gave you proper thanks for saving my life. Blessed Andraste sent you herself to watch over me."

"Ella? That is you, isn't it?" Lysandra said. "I'm glad you're well. And, really, you don't have to thank me for anything. You've thanked me too much already."

"But, Messere!"

"You've already thanked me twice, you know. Once in writing, even. And I'm not 'Messere' or 'Champion.' My name's Lysandra."

"But, Mess—"

"Lysandra, Ella, please. Beth, are you all right?"

She hadn't budged from the third step as Quinn clutched at her hand. The elf's arm remained loosely around Lysandra's waist and he took measured steps that exactly matched her sister's as she made her way up the stairs. She winced as Lysandra's blade reflected a sharp beam into her eye.

"Maker, Lyssie, did you have those shined up on purpose?"

She caught only a faint glimmer of her sister's smile through the beam's remnants that danced red before her eyes. "Bodahn can be a little overzealous at times."

"Bodahn? The funny old dwarf? Why would he be shining your things?"

"Let's just say for now that it was Mother's idea, and that he pledged me his service for not saving Sandal's life."

"Not saving his? Never mind. I'm sure that's a story I'll never hear."

Lysandra shuddered in the elf's arms. "The Deep Roads are something I'd rather forget."

She'd never gotten over the sinking in her gut when her sister had given in to Mother's wishes. She'd _belonged_ there at Lysandra's side, even though her sister had claimed she hadn't wished to go. _Just like when Carver would leave us both behind to go fish with his friends, or Lyssie couldn't resist sunlight and the wind in the wheat._ Lysandra had done her best all those years ago when she'd been nothing but a burden, but once she'd grown into her power, her sister had no longer needed her. Likely, she'd never find out Lysandra's true reason for leaving her behind and taking that Dalish mage instead. Fenris nudged Lysandra up another step as she swallowed bitter bile. Sand grated the back of her throat as she swallowed again.

"It's that elf," Quinn said, his voice catching.

"It's all right," she said, even though it wasn't.

The little boy straightened tall as her sister slowly approached. He gripped her hand and his blue eyes shot flame. If she'd been that dog a few weeks before, she'd have been terrified, but instead, a sudden warmth shot through her.

"Be nice to the Mistress," he said, his tiny voice comically ferocious.

Lysandra fell to one knee before him. "Who's 'the Mistress?'"

"You don't scare me!"

"I don't understand; why would I scare you? Is it the blades? I could put them away if you wish."

"You want to send the Mistress away!"

"And again with 'the Mistress.' Maker's breath!" Lysandra took a deep breath. "Beth, what's he talking about?"

"Come on, Lyssie! You've never been this dense! Quinn's talking about your wish to send me off to Ferelden."

"You're Quinn?" Lysandra extended a hand to the boy. "I'm Lysandra. Pleased to meet you."

She stared at the elf, who looked on with rapt attention. She'd expected him to protest the "mageling's" presence, but instead he seemed spellbound as Lysandra smiled at the boy. _He's that taken with her that he doesn't even mind Quinn's presence?_ Yet when Fenris met her eyes, she saw that sadness again. _Oh… Maker…_ A sudden lump choked her and her vision went blurry. _Too much sun…_ She wrenched her eyes away and her lips twitched as Quinn slowly extended a trembling hand toward her sister. Lysandra's smile bloomed and she shook the boy's hand with mock solemnity.

"Are you really the Champion?" The fear turned quickly to awe.

"That's what they call me for some reason. But, yes, I suppose so. Really, though, I'm Lysandra Hawke, and I wish you'd just call me by my name."

"You're not so scary up close."

"Am I scary from far away?" The smile turned to a grin, and Lysandra's laugh tinkled.

"Not really. You're the Mistress' sister?"

"You mean Beth? Yes."

"You don't look anything like her."

Lysandra flinched. "No, Beth looks more like Mother. I look more like Father did before he died. Her twin, Carver, looked just like her. Are you one of the children Beth trains?"

_She remembers the letter I wrote her. The letter she never replied to…_

"Quinn's new here, Lyssie. The Templars brought him in two weeks ago after a woman sicced her dog on him."

"Dear Maker, who does that to a child?"

"Someone who values her rubbish, apparently. Quinn was scrounging a meal."

"I… I'm sorry," Lysandra said. "What happened to your parents, Quinn?"

"They… The big horned men killed them." Those huge pools of his suddenly went more liquid than the largest sea.

"Three years? You lived three years without them? Oh, Andraste, I'm sorry… I wish I'd been faster." Lysandra's voice broke. "Another suffers for my failings."

"Andra," Fenris said, "again you blame yourself for things beyond your control."

"Isn't it? Isabela…"

"Would have betrayed you no matter what you chose. Once a thief, always a thief."

Quinn's eyes met hers. "She's sad, Mistress?"

"Yes, I think so. Lyssie, I can't leave. Can't you see why?"

"I… Maker." Lysandra tottered to her feet. "You have to be just like Father, don't you?"

Ella grabbed Quinn's hand, and it disturbed her that she couldn't remember when the girl had approached. "Come, let's find Anitra. Bethany needs to be alone with her sister."

"But, Mistress Ella!"

Lysandra's smile came faint as she bent at the waist. "It was good to meet you, Quinn."

"I met the Champion!" he said.

"Go tell Anitra all about it, honey," she said.

"Yes, Mistress Bethany!"

Fenris and Lysandra both stared off into the distance as Ella led the boy back inside. She hadn't expected to see a faint longing in the elf's eyes, but the redness in Lysandra's didn't surprise her.

"Adorable boy," her sister said. "I can't blame you for wanting to stay."

"I have a life here, Lyssie. A good one."

"I…"

"It's a little bright out here—should we go sit and talk?" She gestured into the dim alcove where Solivitus peddled goods to a non-existent clientele.


	10. Catching Up

The courtyard could almost pass for pleasant in the shade if one averted one's eyes from the looming shackled and pained slaves whose suffering rained down upon the Gallows' occupants. Bethany seldom looked up, and today she had company to distract her from the pain they'd etched into every surface here. She gestured to the lowest step on the staircase leading to the Templar Hall. The stonework beneath her feet had been expertly cut and buffed, holding up generations of mage feet, likely by the same slaves bound and forever immortalized in bronze by the Tevinters. Lysandra's shudder caught her off guard; her sister had once dealt easily with Solivitus.

"Here, Beth?"

"Why not?"

"I…"

"We've spent a fair amount of time here recently," Fenris said, "and much of that time was rather unpleasant."

She sat and Lysandra joined her with a grimace. The rumors were true, then: her sister _had_ worked for the Knight-Commander. Fenris sank like fluid beside Lysandra and draped a protective arm about her. _Maker, these elves are graceful!_

"You're grimacing, Bethany," he said.

"I hope the Knight-Commander rewarded you well."

"What?" Lysandra's jaw flopped open.

"I should have known the stories were true. Oh, Maker, Lyssie! How much did she give you to kill those apostates?"

"You really think I had a choice? Kirkwall's falling apart because of that horrid witch, and Orsino's not helping any!"

"You've always had a choice, Lyssie. Always."

"My 'choice' was to let you rot here and get taken down when some ridiculous conspiracy upsets the entire Circle or hunt who that damned Templar dictator 'requested' me to. One was a blood mage who killed his wife and drained her life. Do you really think such a beast should go free?"

"You did this to protect me? Are you mad?"

"Maker's breath," Lysandra muttered. "It was a mistake to return. I should have left well enough alone, knowing you were safe."

"Andra." Fenris held her sister down when she attempted to stand.

"This isn't working, and I don't know how to fix it." Lysandra stared at her shoes. "Just like everything else."

"Before you run off again and leave me for _six years_, I want to know why you didn't take me with you when you left for the Deep Roads."

She tried to find a hint of her sister's old defiance, but Lysandra's eyes had clenched into twin lines, and her knuckles whitened as she balled her fists. "Mother. After Carver, I couldn't… I couldn't risk your life and fail you the way I…"

_Oh, Maker. Fenris was right, wasn't he?_

"And just how were you supposed to stop Carver when he was being a boastful idiot?"

"I… Mother…"

"Right, well, while you're blaming yourself for things you couldn't have stopped, you just left me, waiting."

"I wouldn't wish the Deep Roads on anyone, Beth, especially not you. Did Mother ever tell you we were betrayed?"

"She never said a word."

"Flames! I never told her, did I? Well, I suppose it's best she didn't know. Who knows what she would have done to Varric?"

Fenris chuckled. "Perhaps you should have told your mother."

"No, she'd have hunted down Bartrand, and not that…"

"Damned dwarf," Fenris said, a faint smile on his lips.

Lysandra smirked beneath pained eyes. "Beth, the Deep Roads are awful. Dark, claustrophobic, and reeking everywhere of abandonment and darkspawn spew. You know how long we were gone—imagine being so deep, it takes you a week to return to the surface… I was going mad before we'd even been underground three days! If I'd been able to guess what we'd face down there, I'd have sent Varric packing with a shoe up his arse the day we met him!"

"That still doesn't tell me why. You can't have left me behind because of Mother!"

"I can't? Beth… It would have been easier to have you with me. At least I would have had one more person to keep me from going mad. Maker, if it hadn't been for Fenris, I'd have probably thrown myself unarmored at an ogre!"

"Instead you took Merrill."

"And regretted every moment of it," Fenris said with a small laugh. "If Andra didn't, I did."

"Did you really?" A strange vision danced in her head of the tiny blood mage throwing gouts of red at an ogre as it swept her up in its grasp and began to squeeze.

Her sister cracked a tiny, unconvincing smile. "A little."

"Andra."

The smile turned into a laugh. "All right, a lot. Did you know she can't heal? She never learned. I've always wondered what the Dalish did when they were hurt with a Keeper-in-training who never learned the art. Do you know what was worse? I tried to talk to her, but she shied away and stuck to that damned dwarf like I was the plague. So much for getting to know my new 'friend.'"

"The rest of your company could have had something to do with it," she said. "When it comes to gluing, Lyssie, you always…"

"Likely," he said.

"Are you saying she hated me because of Fenris?" _Maker, she's daft sometimes!_

"_I_ wasn't too fond of you when you defended him."

"I…"

"You took up the torch for me?" The elf seemed almost flattered.

"Too often." She shot the elf a look, and to his credit, he half-smiled back. "Any time I complained about you, it was, 'Think of what he's gone through. You have to suffer because of it, but I'm not going to stop bringing him along.'"

Lysandra's brow shot skyward. "I never said…"

"No, you were much more _gentle_ about it, the way Mother was. Andraste's hind-end, Lyssie, you can guilt-trip with the best of them!"

Lysandra burst out laughing. "Well, this is the second time I've been compared to Mother, even though you look just like her. Fenris claims I smile like her, and that I have 'fire' or something. I… Dear Andraste, I…" The laughter faded in the wake of a droplet that leaked from the corner of her eye. "I miss her."

The elf tucked a few strands of red behind Lysandra's ear and took her hand.

"Still, Lyssie? I stopped crying years ago." Two years before, and though she still felt faint echoes of the pain, much of it had faded.

"I…"

"You understand little, then," Fenris said.

"What's there to understand? Mother's dead and no tears are going to change that. I remember her, and I miss her, but moaning about her death changes nothing."

"I recall a certain mage gasping in horror when she was told how her mother had died," he said.

"Yes, but…" No, that shock still was fresh, though the _missing_ had eased.

"But I should have saved her," Lysandra said. "If I hadn't been running errands for the Viscount and the Arishok, and Maker knows who else… If I'd just paid attention…"

"Instead, you should have been doing Aveline's job for her."

"Aveline had no idea…"

"No, of course not," the elf said. "Blaming yourself is as productive as blaming the Captain of the Guard, except that it's her job to bring killers to justice."

Lysandra's strained smile as she stared at the elf spoke of an exchange rehashed to the point of nausea.

"You blame Aveline, Fenris?" she asked. She'd always thought the two got on well together, but perhaps their cooperation had only been due to her sister's influence.

"I blame the mage and the _magic_ he was cursed with." Always magic. Always.

"Magic is the root of all evil," Lysandra said and the elf laughed.

"True."

She took a deep breath and steeled herself; she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer. "Lyssie, what do you want?"

"What do you mean?" At least confusion wiped most of the pain from the set of her sister's forehead.

"Fenris said, well, that you never wanted the estate. What did you want?"

"The estate was for you, Beth. And for Mother."

"That doesn't answer my question. What did you want then, and what do you want now?"

"I... I wanted to fight those Templars, Beth. I wanted to run with you and make sure you stayed free. I wanted to go home with you and Mother, even if home wasn't Lothering anymore. I don't know. Denerim. Redcliffe. Somewhere where there's a little brown, and a chill in the air. I wanted you to be safe and happy, not locked away forever in some renamed prison!"

"And now?"

"To go home. Peace and quiet, a chance to breathe without being haunted by Mother's face, and Carver's shattered body. And your face when I left for the Deep Roads, and when the Templars took you away."

"You blame yourself for the Templars? Maker, Lyssie! It was my own stupid fault I was caught, not yours."

"How were you caught?" the elf asked.

She snorted. "Mother was going on and on about how she missed you and hoped you were safe, and Gamlen was poking at her. 'When are you leaving, Leandra? Isn't that daughter of yours supposed to be back by now with enough coin to buy all of Kirkwall?' I got so sick of it all that I needed to get away. I should have gone to the Hanged Man and lost at cards to 'Bela, but instead, I went walking around the alienage. I'd never been deep inside it before, and the chattering of the elves sounded so nice! You know, no fighting, no snide comments, just the banter of friends. I should have gotten Aveline, maybe, when I walked by an alley and heard a scuffle. But, well…"

"You took them on?" Lysandra asked. "Oh, Beth!"

"Well, the boy and girl would have died if I'd hesitated! Instead, I froze the three thugs, and set them on fire. The children ran off, but I suppose they must have been the ones to summon a Templar. Do you know, those thugs got off scot-free?" She couldn't help but laugh at the memory. "Figures, doesn't it? I'd always wondered if the Maker had a sense of humor, and now I know for sure he does."

"Hm. Maybe the Deep Roads would have been better than being trapped for weeks with Gamlen."

"You're not going to tell me how stupid I was?"

"You're just like Father, charging in to the rescue, no matter the cost."

"A Hawke trait," Fenris said, and without his usual trace of irony.

"Do you have to do that?" Her gut clenched.

"Do what?"

"After you blamed yourself for years, you're just going ignore my idiocy? Maker's breath, Lyssie, you drive me mad!"

"What do you think of me that you'd ask that? No, never mind. I know what you think, and I probably deserve it."

"I used to wish to be just like you," she said, "strong and kind, lethal with a knife. I wanted to be able to _protect_ us as you and Father did, instead of being the reason we needed protection in the first place!"

"So you've learned how delusional you were," Lysandra said. "Especially in calling me 'strong.' Do you really think I'd yell at you for saving children? I can't say I'd have done differently in your shoes, except I'd likely have gotten myself killed."

"I guess I've grown up." She fiddled with the folds in her robe as she tried to figure out what to say.

"I… I'm sorry, Beth. I should have taken you with us."

"It's better you didn't if it's as dreadful as you say."

"I cost you your freedom, even if you claim otherwise." Lysandra did her own fiddling, tracing Fenris' nails with a fingertip. "I can't ever make up for that."

"What is freedom, Lyssie? I wasn't free as an apostate, just as Father wasn't. We were always on the run, always hiding, always poor, cut off from knowledge! You and Carver could go wherever you wanted, but I was stuck indoors until I could hide what I was."

Fenris' comprehension startled her. He'd been the one urging her to the Circle, even when she'd resented the thought of the Gallows. _You can see what I am. Lie to yourself if you must._ His words to Aveline and her truth weren't so different, were they?

"You and Carver and Mother all suffered because of what I was, and what Father was. You're free now, Lyssie, just as Mother should have been all those years."

"So you think." Her sister's bitter laugh mirrored her thoughts. "Free to be shoved back and forth between sets of lunatics. Orsino and Meredith both have me doing their dirty work as they avoid their own showdown and the Grand Cleric will do nothing to shut either of them up. Free to exterminate the Dalish, and wander around sewers scraping up nonsense ingredients for our resident madman… Free to have the city looking to me to solve what can only be cleansed with flame."

The elf's laugh took her aback. "The Knight-Commander is the only one keeping the madmen at bay."

"If you call massive conspiracies to oust her 'keeping the madmen at bay,'" Lysandra said.

"The First Enchanter is a good man!"

"I don't know if I'd go that far, but Meredith makes him look like the voice of reason."

That answer was pure Lysandra, and she couldn't help her laugh. "What's this sewer scraping you were doing?"

"Oh, Maker, I don't know. Anders isn't… well, he isn't doing so well. He lied to me about why he needed said scrapings, and had me distract the Grand Cleric while he… I don't know, put sand in her panties? Stole a 'priceless relic' from her collection?"

"That's odd."

"'Odd' is too kind a word for the abomination."

"What would he want with sewer leavings?"

"He claimed it was a potion to separate Justice from him, but it seems the spirit has gotten stronger. Maybe he's making something to cure Tranquility. I don't know."

"And you're not going to find out?"

"Not if he has his way. All he'll say now is, 'You'll see, Hawke. All mages will soon have their justice.' I really hope I don't find out; whatever it is, I don't think it's something anyone will like."

"Dear Andraste."

"Mere prayer won't save you from the abomination." The elf's lips twitched. "It hasn't freed me yet."

"And Aveline? How is she? I haven't heard anything of her in years, just like the rest of your little circle."

"Circles," Lysandra said with a sigh. "Aveline's doing well, at least when she's not having to deal with the Templars trying to take over the guard. Do you remember that guard we rescued, Donnic? They're married now."

"A miracle," Fenris said.

"Why? Aveline's lovely," she said.

"And less skilled at courting than that mage creature we hunted for the Knight-Commander."

_Mage creature_. "You mean Emile de Launcet? You should have let that fool go free. He's harmless."

"Mostly a danger to himself," Lysandra said. "You've said you wondered what would have happened if Mother hadn't run off with Father. Well, look no further than that fumbling fool."

"Maker."

They danced, taking spins around the floor, the words pleasant partners, but she knew it was nothing more than a diversion. She couldn't ask what she wished, and Lysandra seemed determined to avoid it as well. She shifted and adjusted her robe beneath her. Fernis seemed unduly focused on Lysandra's widening smile, the shifting of her sister's hand in his as she stroked his thumb. _Why do I keep waiting for him to say something? He won't. He'll sit here and interject, but he won't prod her the way he tried to prod me._ She knew why she waited, and the answer sent a chill down her spine. _He's family now, Maker forbid. _Her stomach grumbled, and with a start, she noticed the torches had been lit.

"Will you come back tomorrow?" she asked. "There's something I need to know."

"What is it?" Her sister's voice dropped, and her eyes seemed to retreat behind the deep lines etched at their corners.

"I can't ask. Not now."

"You never used to be like this."

"Six years changes things, Lyssie."

"That's it, isn't it? Oh, Maker, Beth, I'm sorry. I just… Seeing you here, after you asked me to watch over Mother… I…"

"Are you saying _I_ laid that burden on you?"

"No! I just… It's just another way I failed you, and after you were locked away… I couldn't…"

"You keep talking about freedom and prison, but you really don't understand, do you?"

"Tell me, Beth. Whatever it is, I'll listen."

"Do you know what it's like being a mage? To be alone, to know no one else like you? I mean, I knew Father, but you were born normal, and so was Carver. No matter the magic in the Amell line, Mother was also normal. I'd never met another mage until we met Merrill and Anders."

"You're more than just a mage, Beth."

"That's not what I'm saying. I never had a chance to learn more about my talents, to sharpen them. Magic was always something to hide, not to practice and to learn."

Lysandra smiled and seemed to drift off. "You used to be so obsessed with all the dull rot in Lothering's Chantry."

"It wouldn't have hurt you to pick up a book or two, you know."

"I'll have you know I've been reading. A lot!"

Fenris' lips twitched with a hint of a smile. "In fact, Andra's been learning to read in Arcanum."

"Tevinter books? Doesn't the Chantry ban those?"

"A Ferelden book, translated into the Tevinter language. I'm sure the Chantry doesn't have much to say about that."

"It's the Chantry, Lyssie. They have plenty to say about everything. I _was_ trying to make a point, though. You see a prison, but I see a place to learn, and a place where I can be _proud_ of what I am."

"I've always been proud of you, Beth. Always. Even when I couldn't, well, you know…"

The pile of Mother's things two years ago, dropped off by that funny little Bodahn and not Lysandra, had told her something else. _And what else was I supposed to think?_

"This is my _home_, Lyssie. Where I belong."

"Will you do something for me? Let me ask Meredith one more time to transfer you? You know what she'll say, but I have to try."

"You do seem to have made a friend of the Templars." Fenris let out a short laugh. "Fine, Lyssie. One try, and if she says no, that's it."

"I think I can live with that."

She stood and her sister and the elf followed suit. That smile she'd grown up with, and had spent hours in front of a mirror trying to duplicate, blazed bright.

"Bethany," Fenris said with a slight bow.

"I'll see you later," Lysandra said.

"That's it? No hug?"

"I didn't think you'd want one after everything…"

A faint hint of copper and spider made her eyes water as she wrapped her arms around Lysandra. She squeezed, even as her stomach twitched.

"Don't you ever clean that?"

"What?"

"You smell like the inside of a cave!"

"Eau de guts, Beth. It's the new Orlesian trend. All the nobles are wearing it this season."

"You're horrible, you know that?"

"Some things never change."

"Well, I wish this one would. Maker's breath, Lyssie! You'd think _you'd_ grow up in six years."

"I can't smell anything since the Deep Roads. Varric's damned expedition ruined me forever."

"So it seems." She gripped her sister tighter. "I've missed you, you know."

"I missed you too."


	11. A Pleasant Walk to the Chantryside

She stared up at the clouds roiling overhead, a tangle of differing shades of grey that shouted, _Doom!_, as droplets of frigid sea foam spattered her face. Her stomach churned with them; she'd never gotten used to the constant rocking at sea, not even after spending weeks in a hold. Unlike the sky and her gut, the sea seemed calm, as if it was waiting. It held its breath, though the clouds didn't. She wished she could quiet the storm within her. She stared at the huge staircase and towering manses that loomed over Kirkwall proper. If only she hadn't been caught, she could have been living in one, shielded from Templar eyes, and protected by her sister.

_Just one day in one of those fancy dresses… Oh, the silks we saw at the markets!_ She laughed to herself as the ship rocked. Dresses were the last thing that _should_ be on her mind. She hadn't been to Kirkwall proper since the Qunari had sacked the city, and whatever this reason was, well, dresses really had nothing to do with it. She stroked her robe's fur trim and snickered again. _Some noble would kill for these fabrics!_

The First Enchanter nodded her way, his face drawn tight, and his brows clenched to spasms.

"_I hear you've made some progress with the Champion. That's good." She doesn't like the worry in his eyes or the way his thin lips twist. "I've summoned her here, but we're not going to have enough time."_

"_For what, First Enchanter?"_

"_I need to speak to the Grand Cleric, and I need you there. I'm leaving a messenger behind; Andraste willing, the Champion will join us."_

_She nods. She wonders, not for the first time, if the true reason the First Enchanter mentors her has nothing to do with her talents._

"_I'm not sure I'll be of much help, messere."_

"_You're needed, Bethany. Follow."_

"The Champion will have to intervene," the First Enchanter said as they docked. "She's eminently reasonable."

"First Enchanter." She only knew the young male mage by reputation. "Will everything be all right?"

"I have full faith in the Champion and the Grand Cleric."

"What happened, exactly?" she asked.

The First Enchanter wrenched himself to his feet with his staff and staggered onto the gangplank. "The years don't make this any easier." A small chuckle. "The Knight-Commander is determined that you find out. You won't have to wait long."

"Maker! Well, at least Lyssie calls you, 'The voice of reason.'" She left off the rest, though he'd likely have found it amusing.

"A good sign. Maybe the Maker is watching out for us after all."

She swallowed her laugh. _If only, First Enchanter, if only._

The clouds had stopped twisting and instead clustered together, blocking what limited daylight remained. She'd always hated the docks at night—not that she'd ever been fond of them during the day—and she huddled in close to the rest of the First Enchanter's entourage. Three years hadn't dimmed the assault on her nostrils; the intertwined reek of decayed fish, unwashed bodies and rotgut dueled with the overwhelming stench of sea salt. _Smells like home,_ Isabela had told her once as she'd clutched at her mouth to keep breakfast from revisiting. _Home_. The Gallows. The children! She hadn't warned them and seen to their safety before she'd left. _If it involves Lyssie, it's bound to be trouble._ But there was nothing to be done; one didn't defy the First Enchanter.

Past the empty space that the silver-skinned barbarians had once called home. The docks had once bustled with life, even late at night, even I that life had delighted in ridding other life of its coin, and its very existence. The reek was as still as the air, and she felt the hidden bandits holding their breath. Waiting. She shuddered in tandem with another of the mages she knew little about. At least she knew his name, Cyril, and that he was the talk of at least half of the female mages. _That Cyril can light my flame any time!_ Even Ella had spoken of him once or twice. _That accent, Bethany! Oh, it's so foreign!_ She'd never liked Orlesian accents much, herself.

"Zees is 'orrible," he said. "You know zees place?"

"Too well."

"I see. Well, zee First Enchanter will protect uz."

"I know. He has my full faith."

Up the stairs, and the First Enchanter's breath came heavy after the first flight. He leaned against his staff as she looked out over the brooding waters. A single guard nodded, silent beneath her heavy helm. And silent was what she wished Cyril would become, though the other two mages kept their mouths firmly closed.

"They say ze Champion is beyootifool."

"That's what they keep telling me, over and over."

The Hightown mansions loomed overhead and she wondered if Lysandra laughed down at her.

"They also say zhat beyooty runs in ze family. If so, ze Champion must be beyootifool indeed."

She stared into a pair of leering brown eyes. Maybe he was handsome, his cheekbones towering majestically over a square, sculpted jaw, but Maker! Clearly, he had no idea what a fool he sounded, and she still, even after six years in the Gallows, couldn't take a man in a dress and ornate hood seriously. The heavy accent, redolent with invasions and conquering, grated her ears to shreds. _Maker's breath, even Ella's more subtle when she stares at Fenris!_

"Yes, well, look! The mansions! The carvings on the stairs!"

"They are not so beyootifool as you."

"You know, I've met a mage or two who speaks well of you. Have you talked to Ella? She likes accents."

"And you do not?" She'd hoped those eyes might turn crestfallen, or those cheeks a shamed burgundy, but instead, the—_Oh, Maker! They look so soft!_—sensual lips curved into a smirk.

She huffed up several steps before she grunted, "I _like_ Fereldens."

Cyril laughed, and even his laugh was tinged with an accent. "I have heard ze leettle mouse likes everyzing."

"_Little mouse_? Could you be any more insulting?"

His awful laugh didn't stop, and its intensity grated at the base of her spine. "Your leetle friend is rather cute. Zhat is why I don't call her 'Chantry Mouse' as ze rest of ze Circle."

"Maker's breath!"

The mage's laugh echoed off the polished marble. _Hah! Hah! Hah! _She clenched her fist, the raven-tinged cawing grating at her spine, as she slipped back to lend a shoulder to the First Enchanter. The elf gave her a grateful smile tinged with a hint of amusement. Three more flights, and the Enchanter's smile turned to a smirk.

"The first sight that greets you in Hightown," he said, nodding toward the Blooming Rose. "It's fitting."

Pompous and lurid, despite its purpose, it dripped with velvet and silk and expensive tapestries. She'd gasped the first time Lysandra had confronted Uncle Gamlen inside, and had gritted her teeth as that male whore had offered her sister his body. She'd swallowed and flushed as she'd watched Lysandra's eyes widen and a hint of a smile stretch her lips as she considered, but a quick glance at Fenris had dried up her sister's enthusiasm, thank the Maker! She snorted. _Lyssie's always liked elves, apparently. Who'd have guessed?_ Lysandra hadn't looked at any of the boys back in Lothering, not once Carver's older friend had moved on to an apprenticeship in Redcliffe, and there were few enough elves back home for Lysandra to take a cotton to.

Hightown was just as quiet as the docks, with not even a single stray guard to lend a hint of life. She shivered as they passed a pair of Templars standing motionless outside the Viscount's Keep. The First Enchanter nodded their way, but they didn't even deign to grunt in acknowledgement. _Why are Templars here? Shouldn't the city guard be watching instead? Lyssie said the Knight-Commander was grabbing for power, but I didn't think it was this bad._

"It is wonderfool to be zo loved," Cyril said and the First Enchanter cracked a smile.

"It is, isn't it? Meredith must have dropped a philter in their morning tea."

"Good to know you can all be so _happy_," she said. "I didn't have a chance to warn the children."

"Come now, it's not so bad," the First Enchanter said. "The Champion will work another of her miracles with that hellion, and everything will be right as rain."

"You don't really believe that…" The words dried up in her throat as she caught a glimpse of yellow hair twisting over some especially gaudy Templar plate.

_Maker! The Knight-Commander! How did she get here so fast?_

"Meredith, what a pleasant surprise!" The First Enchanter opened his arms wider than his smirk. "I see you whip the ferrymen harder than your lackeys!"

_He's worse than Lyssie! Andraste save us!_


End file.
